


thinking out loud

by abovetheruins



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Telepathy, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 13:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3694046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/abovetheruins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A week after he comes home from his mission, Archie starts hearing the thoughts of anyone who touches him. This leads to some interesting revelations when Cook pulls him into a hug on stage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thinking out loud

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for this wonderful plot goes to gliese581/smellofstorms! I just adapted it to full-length fic form. Thanks for giving me the opportunity, Jase! I’m using this to fill my ‘wildcard (telepathy/mindmeld)’ slot on my trope_bingo card.

David doesn’t think much of it, at first. 

He chalks it up to exhaustion, to the stress and emotional overload of being back home, settling back into the life he’d been removed from for the past two years.

For a while it works. David doesn’t pay any mind to the burst of half-formed thoughts that are not his own, the brief flashes of feeling that strike him whenever someone touches him. When his sisters hug him (“ _Missed you_ ,” and “ _So glad you’re home_ ” floating through his mind like wisps of smoke), when his mother cups his cheek (“ _Proud of you_ ” and “ _Look at how you’ve grown_ ” mingled with such a rush of paternal affection that it brings tears to his eyes) or even when his brother nudges his shoulder (“ _Missed you, bro_ ” echoing like a bell in his head even when Daniel says nothing at all), David doesn’t think anything of it. He’s tired, he’s overwhelmed – with happiness, with family, with being back _home_ ; there’s bound to be some weirdness attached to that, right? 

But it doesn’t go away. In fact, it gets _stronger_.

People on the street brush against him and he hears their thoughts, anxious _Gonna be late_ ’s in the morning when he’s walking downtown, bursts of anger as one woman bumps into him, _That damn dog!_ echoing in his head as she races on, brandishing a leash, and, once, a rush of affection tinged with something else, something deeper that had made him blush, as a man and woman holding hands had brushed past him, the woman’s shoulder touching David’s for a brief moment.

It’s worse when he’s recognized by fans; they tend to be, um, grabby, and the brush of hands along his shoulder or arms or hands always brings with them a hectic flood of “ _Oh my god!_ ” and “ _Can’t believe it’s him!_ ” and, occasionally, this weird staticky excitement that David can only describe as _”!!!!!!_ ” 

He starts pulling away from contact, shrinking from even the lightest touches. No one questions it, which he appreciates. They probably think it’s just him being weird, like usual; he’d never been a big fan of people touching him even before he left for Chile, after all. He hears his mother talking to his step-dad one night about it, because he’s started to shirk away from physical contact with them, too, and with his siblings.

“It must be strange for him,” she says, her voice inflected with motherly concern. “Being back home, being surrounded by family and friends again. I’m sure he’ll open up more once all of the excitement settles down.”

He feels bad, then, that his reticence has become so noticeable, and that he’s worrying his mother, but it’s just – it’s too _strange_ , the barest touch bringing with it a deluge of thoughts and feelings that are not his own, that shouldn’t be swimming around in his head. It’s definitely not normal, and he has no idea what brought it on or how to stop it.

Still, as he settles back into life at home, he learns how to deal with it. He adapts. It’s all new territory, and David has to navigate it on his own, but he gets the hang of filtering out the thoughts that aren’t his, until they’re a faint burst of white noise in the back of his mind. He learns to identity and ignore whatever feelings that another person’s touch might generate, until he’s no longer blindsided by anger or sadness or happiness that isn’t his. 

He figures this is just something he’ll have to live with, and so, after a few months of trial and error, that’s just what he does. And things are fine. Manageable.

Until Sandy, when David Cook wraps an arm around him for the first time in over two years, and David is hit with a flood of emotion that he can’t even hope to ignore.

A muddled mix of happiness and giddy excitement rushes through him, and for a moment he’s able to rationalize that this is normal; David’s feeling it, too, of course, a giddy mix of joy and exhilaration brought on by this unexpected reunion and subsequent impromptu duet. But then – but then he starts to feel more, so much more, a heady rush of affection and fondness coupled with a riptide of love and longing that nearly knocks him off his feet. 

“ _Missed you_ ” floats almost lazily through his mind, wraps itself warm and soft around his consciousness, and then, straight on its heels, “ _Love you so damn much_.”

When Cook releases him, not even the cheers of the crowd can penetrate David’s fuzzy head as he stumbles off stage; he’s caught, endlessly and helplessly, in the swirl of emotions still thrumming through him, until he has to slump down into a chair backstage and lean his elbows on his knees, “ _Love you so damn much_ ” running like a mantra through his head.

What had that even – ?

Did Cook really – ? 

There was just no way.

He pushes the thoughts – the crazy, wild, impossible thoughts – to the back of his mind, and when Cook finds him later after the show, slinging a companionable arm around his shoulders, David doesn’t even think about flinching back or moving away. He’s _missed_ Cook, missed his face and his voice and his presence, and the way he so effortlessly drew David in, like personal space just didn’t exist between them. 

“ _Can’t believe you’re here_ ” echoes faintly in his head just as Cook is leading him toward the backstage exit, saying something about food with the band and, “You can hang out for a while, right, Archie?” his smile easy and slanted and warm, and David nods dumbly, swallowing hard against the tide of emotion crashing through him, the love and longing from before coupled with what he can only describe as a bright, effervescent joy, and is this what Cook always feels when he’s around David? 

It’s so _much_ , and David wars with himself, wanting at once to pull away, to put some distance between them, because this isn’t – he shouldn’t be privy to this, Cook would be mortified if he knew that David could hear what he was thinking, feel what he was feeling – but Cook’s arm slung over his shoulder feels so nice, safe and comforting and familiar, and the rush of feeling, the warm tinge of Cook’s thoughts swimming in David’s mind – they’re not unwelcome.

He gulps, feeling his face flush as thoughts of his own – thoughts he had always forced himself to ignore, before – filter to the forefront of his mind, tangling with Cook’s. _I want –_ and _Could he really feel like – ?_ blossoming and fading away in a rush of anxiety and fear and doubt, because Cook couldn’t – 

Could he?

“You okay, Archie?” Cook asks, staring at him in concern. David wonders what he must look like, and he plasters a smile on his face, hoping to waylay Cook’s concerns.

“I’m good,” he chirps, and then, to forestall any other questions, “Where are we going?”

Cook grins, squeezing his shoulder. David feels of burst of affection wash over him and _shakes_. “These are _your_ stomping grounds, Arch, remember? You tell me.”

David rolls his eyes, falling back on all of the techniques he’s learned over the past few months to push the foreign thoughts to the back of his mind. “Oh gosh, Cook, you’re not gonna start that whole ‘enemy territory’ thing, are we? I thought we covered that on stage.”

Cook’s grin widens, and this time the burst of affection David feels is all his own.

//

They keep in touch afterwards, and it’s like – nothing Cook says ever implies any of what David had heard or felt. The older man is the same as always, supportive and friendly and absolutely ridiculous, and though David’s glad for that, he really is, he’s still – disappointed, somehow.

Was what he felt, what he heard, all a fluke? 

He tells himself to just forget it, to stop obsessing over it, and for a while he’s able to. He signs up for classes at BYU and immerses himself in a completely different world. He still talks to Cook on the phone, though, and through texts, and his heart does a stupid flippy jump every time he hears Cook’s familiar ringtone, because apparently eavesdropping on Cook’s mind (which is basically what he had done, even if it had been totally unintentional) has released the floodgates on every one of the thoughts he’s ever tried to hide or ignore or forget about David Cook, from the stupidly charming tilt of his smile to the way his laugh makes David feel warm, to the way even a glance at his forearms has always made David’s throat go a little dry.

Should he talk to Cook about it? Could he? It’s not like Cook had actually _told_ him how he felt; David had just heard it, felt it. How could he even explain that to Cook? To _anybody_?

He can’t stop thinking about it, though – the way it’d felt any time Cook touched him, that sweet-hot rush of affection and longing flooding through him, the things Cook had been thinking (“ _I love you_ ,” “ _Fuck, I am so happy you’re here_ ,” and “ _It felt like someone tore out my heart when you left_ ”).

It keeps him up at night, distracts him in his classes. His mother presses her hand to his cheek at the dinner table, tsking, “Are you coming down with something, mijo? You’re all flushed,” and David stutters and stumbles over his words in a way that makes him feel seventeen again. It’s _awful_.

He finally gets to the point where he can’t take it anymore. He’s in Nashville for a song-writing session, and he calls Cook up as soon as his plane lands, asking if they can get together for lunch or something while he’s there. Something must come through in his voice, the anxiety he feels or the fear, because Cook gives him his address and tells him to come over whenever he’s finished in the studio.

When David knocks on Cook’s door, he’s a nervous wreck. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, or what he’ll say, or if Cook will even want those things he’d thought about. He would have told David, right? If he really wanted anything to happen between them?

Maybe he’s scared, too, though. Maybe he’s just like David, confused and overwhelmed and terrified about giving voice to the thoughts in his head. Maybe it’s up to David to show him not to be afraid. 

Cook opens the door, a wide, familiar grin on his face, and David feels all of his fear, all of his anxiety practically fade away. He steps forward into Cook’s waiting arms, no hesitation at all, and the rush of feeling (warmth and happiness and love) is nothing compared to David’s own response, a full-body flush of heat and contentment that leaves him a little breathless, and awed, and how could he have ever been scared of _this_?

“It’s good to see you, Arch,” Cook rumbles against his ear, and David just squeezes his arms around Cook’s middle, saying, “It’s good to see you too, Cook. I missed you.” 

They eventually make it into the house, and Cook gives him a tour before they settle in the living room with plates of grilled chicken and vegetables (“You cook?” David had asked with wide eyes, and Cook had nudged his shoulder, laughing. “I’ve learned a few things in the past two years, Archie.”)

They’re sitting close enough that Cook’s thigh brushes against his whenever he moves, and David can barely focus on his food, delicious as it is, too distracted by the flashes of feeling he gets whenever they touch. He knows he could filter out the sensations if he really tried, but he – he likes how it feels, the evidence of Cook’s absolute regard for him, even if it makes his face flush and his palms sweat and butterflies come to life in the pit of his stomach.

“Hey, is everything okay, Arch?” Cook asks him, setting his fork down on his plate as he turns to look at David. David swallows, pushing his own plate away. 

“Um,” he starts, hands on his knees. “I actually… I came here for a reason. To tell you something.”

“Oh?” Cook’s knee brushes against his thigh. “What is it?”

David opens and closes his mouth, wishing that Cook could just know instinctively what it is he wants to say. “I actually – I… “

Cook’s hands slide over his, and David sucks in a breath. “Archie, c’mon. What is it? You can tell me.”

David stares at Cook’s bright eyes, at his familiar face, at the curl of his callused fingers around David’s hand. 

“ _I want to kiss him_ ” echoes softly in his head, wrapping around his mind like a warm blanket, and, before his brain can catch up with his mouth, David says, “You should.”

Cook blinks. “Should what?”

David tells himself to _just do it, just go for it_. “Kiss me,” he says, and holds his breath for the few moments it takes for Cook to stare wide-eyed at him, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows. 

David thinks for a second that he’s made a mistake, that maybe Cook really doesn’t want –

But then Cook’s big hands move up to cup David’s cheeks, pulling him closer, pulling him _in_ , and David has half a second to think, _Oh gosh, he’s actually –_ before Cook’s lips press against his, soft and slow, and David melts into it, feeling the pulse of Cook’s affection racing through him in a dizzying wave.

For the first time, he finds himself thinking he could get used to this, the influx of feelings and thoughts that aren’t his own. He thinks, if he can always feel like this, the dual sensations of Cook’s emotions bolstering and wrapping around his own, then whatever had caused his mysterious new ability in the first place, he feels grateful for it. 

And then Cook pushes him back against the couch with a groan, and David stops thinking altogether.


End file.
